


Never Moderation Knew

by Eurydiceran



Series: The Stormsinger Series [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, Angst, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Chaotic dumbasses with too much power, Clint Barton is Bad With Teenagers But He's Trying, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feral OCs, Fictional Languages, Found Family, Gen, Lots of sarcasm, Marvel Norse Lore, Nobody knows how to accept genuine affection from another human being, Nobody knows how to process emotions healthfully, Platonic Relationships, Superpowers, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, everybody needs a hug, gratuitous use of flashbacks and dream/nightmare foreshadowing, redemption arc (sort of), surprise mutual adoption that literally everyone else saw coming, the wind has feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eurydiceran/pseuds/Eurydiceran
Summary: Gale is exhausted-- of fighting to run, fighting to stay, fighting to make it through the day. In the course of only a few months, she's gone to Hell and back, crashing against ancestors and fathers alike. There's no mistake about it, Gale is a force to be reckoned with. But she's vanished from sight and reach; for months now, no one has found the faintest clue as to her whereabouts, and not for lack of trying by the people she left in a tower full of shattered glass. In the aftermath of a storm fit to shake nonbelievers to their core, there isn't a soul (or split-soul) untouched by the silent apprehension slowly rolling over the horizon...(sequel to "May the Wind be at Your Back")(This is imported from Quotev, so if there are any inconsistencies, don't worry! I'm just Bad With Technology)
Series: The Stormsinger Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103567
Kudos: 4





	1. She is not who she seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winds that never moderation knew,
> 
> Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
> 
> Or, out of breath with joy, could not enlarge
> 
> Their straighten'd lungs, or conscious of their charge
> 
> \- John Dryden, "Astraea Redux"

Christopher was a religious man. He believed in God, angels, the Devil— all of it. By the standards of his small Arizona town, though, he was definitely more laid-back in his approach to anything of supernatural or divine nature. While his neighbors muttered about the attacks on New York (at this point, their civil engineers really should’ve figured out that they needed better safety codes), Christopher busied himself with managing his grocery store.

_“Why worry about heroes?”_ He reasoned. Christopher would often be asked why he remained unfazed by the presence of inhuman creatures and pagan gods, and he always gave a variant of the same answer: _“When trouble comes to our door, I’ll pray for one of them to help us. Until then, I don’t see why we should criticize them for helping other folks trapped the situations we might find ourselves caught in.”_

There was no secret behind Christopher, no hidden belief. He was who he was, and if that changed, he’d be that new thing and wouldn’t waste time worrying about it.

Christopher was steady, steadier than most— though he hadn’t always been that way. He knew what it felt like to not have solid ground or footing, and if there was anything he could do about now, it was to help the people around him so they could someday reach the same steadiness he felt. So Christopher smiled and laughed, and kept an eye out for any changing winds. He knew he’d find them eventually (he’d done so before, and eased their passing all the same), but he just didn’t expect the next change to be so… quiet.

The girl showed up, unannounced and caked in dust, near the end of September.

It’d been a slow Thursday morning. Not much travel passed through Welton– well, not until winter really hit, and then Christopher’s store would easily be a dozen times busier. But so far, only a few folks had passed through, chatting with Christopher for a while and then pacing back into the heat lurking on the outside of the glass doors.

Christopher himself was sitting at the second of two cash registers, idly working his way through book of crossword puzzles, when the small bell above the doors chimed.

“Nice to—” Christopher’s usual greeting died on his lips as a downright freezing gust of air washed over him. His body locked up in a shiver, the pencil nearly tumbling out of his fingers. He looked first to the vents above the door, where the air conditioner ran during the summer— and then his eyes fell on the solitary stranger below.

She’d been on the road for a while, that much was obvious. Between the Sun and the ever-present Arizona dust, her clothes and skin were almost stained tan; but in a few places where the dirt hadn’t stuck, he could see fair, unblemished skin. Her long hair was scraped back into a braid— dark brown or black, it was hard to tell under the grease and dust. A jacket was tied around her waist, and her hands were tucking into the front straps of a plain green backpack that’d definitely seen better days. The girl— eighteen, maybe?— was staring over Christopher’s shoulder, pointedly avoiding eye contact. She seemed almost… _frightened_ , he wanted to say, but there wasn’t any fear in her eyes. _Determined, maybe. Alert. Apprehensive._

“Don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round before,” Christopher said slowly. The momentary burst of cold air had rapidly faded, but the goosebumps across his arms remained. “I’m Christopher. Let me know if you need any…”

Without blinking, the girl spun towards the first aisle and disappeared between the rows of boxed cereal and granola bars.

“… help.” Christopher couldn’t help but stare at the place she’d vanished from.

There wasn’t a single other soul in the store beside Christopher and the stranger. He caught a glimpse of her every now and then as she flitted between aisles, hands beginning to fill with small boxes and bags. Christopher didn’t move from his seat, but kept a close eye on the girl (or wherever she’d been last; her clunky boots made no sound on the floor and he couldn’t tell when she’d moved on). Shoplifters weren’t unheard of and Christopher’d had to deal with more than a few in past. But after five minutes of silence in the store, the girl reappeared at the other end, making her way towards the register.

Christopher set down the crossword book as she approached.

“Find everything alright?” He asked in a friendly tone.

The girl’s head twitched in a nod as she carefully set out each item on the counter. As Christopher began scanning the items through, he noticed that her hands were by her sides, palms turned slightly out— an intentional gesture, hands kept in sight so he wouldn’t think she was going to pocket something at the register.

Christopher glanced up at the girl’s face (turned towards the stack of chewing gum, avoiding his gaze like the plague). He looked back to the register after that. It didn’t really matter to him if she tried to steal something. With the way her shirt hung baggily off her frame, she’d need the extra food.

It didn’t take Christopher too long to scan the items— trail mix, hand wipes, bottled water, jerky— but with the girl just _standing_ there, the silence started to put him on edge.

_Thirty-eight dollars, forty cents_ read the register.

“Thirty-three forty,” Christopher said, eyeing the girl’s gaunt form and too-sharp collarbones. His voice ran out in the empty store; despite his uneasiness, it seemed wrong to break the silence now.

He blinked, and suddenly one pale, relatively-clean hand was holding out a few crumpled bills. Christopher slowly reached out for the money; she yanked her hand back as soon as he had it, like the gesture burned her.

“Here you go—” He handed her the paper bag. She still didn’t look him in the eye when she took it. And then, hesitantly: “Excuse me if I seem rude, but–”

Before he could even finish his thought, the glass door was swinging shut, the gust of air already fading in the girl’s wake.

She came back a week later; again, when the store was completely empty. Christopher glanced up from the puzzle book, and gave her the customary smile and “Let me know if you need any help!”, but his words fell short as she disappeared among the aisles. This time, he didn’t keep as close a watch— he’d checked the inventory after her last visit, nothing was missing that she hadn’t paid for.

Scarcely five minutes later, the girl all but popped out of thin air next to the register.

“Christ!” Christopher swore reflexively, jumping up from his seat.

The girl’s eyebrow quirked up— the only actual expression to cross her face since they’d… well, “met” implies they talked, so that was clearly off the table.

“… Sorry.” He fumbled with a cereal box before finally pulling his nerves together.

The girl stood silently as she’d done the week before. Christopher risked a glance up every so often; she looked just about the same, though a bit cleaner. Her hair had been washed— it was definitely black, the same disturbingly dark shade as her eyes— and her skin wasn’t so caked with grime. _She’s young, younger than I thought_ , Christopher realized. _Can’t be past seventeen, poor thing._

Between items, Christopher’s eyes flickered down to her hands. She was staring out into space, but her fingers twitched almost constantly.

“You play an instrument?” The question slipped out before he even realized he was thinking it.

The girl’s head shot up. For one alarming moment, she stared straight at him.

Christopher did not like it.

He felt pinned to the spot— her eyes bored into him, slicing through every physical barrier and thought. Christopher couldn’t help but lean backwards, unable to break away, unable to feel anything less than vulnerable.

Then she looked away, and Christopher could suddenly breath freely again. He quickly reached for the next box (more cereal, nothing sugary), a shiver trickling down his spine. “I just—” he stammered, and the girl’s head twitched in his direction. “Lydia— my sister’s wife— she plays the piano, and her fingers are always tapping out melodies, whether she knows it or not.”

Christopher was in the middle of ringing up the total when he heard a soft hum. Startled, he looked up once more.

The girl hadn’t moved, but the sharp edge in her eyes had eased somewhat. She angled her face down, observing her fingers flicker and play out little rhythms of their own making. She hadn’t _spoken_ , not really— but a hum was a response nonetheless, even without words.

Christopher smiled again, and when he finally handed over her bags, she walked away seven dollars heavier than a regular customer should’ve.

The third time Christopher saw the girl, he was technically on his lunch break. “Technically” because, as the owner of the store, Christopher could set his puzzle book of the week down and close up for a minutes anytime he wanted. And although he wielded such power over his own working hours, he still liked to be inside when people showed up; he knew practically all his customers by name (the blessing and curse of a small town), and so it felt unjustifiably rude to not be there when they came around. However, than didn’t mean he was averse to heading out for lunch, when he knew that no one would come by the store.

Christopher sat on a picnic bench under the shade of a particularly large ash tree, enjoying his sandwich and watching a pair of ducks paddle around the nearby pond. The town of Welton didn’t suffer from an overabundance of parks, and Christopher liked to stop by the one near his store and appreciate the fact that it was a possibility for him.

He’d set out the Tupperware and the bottle of water, careful not to rest his arms on the spots of the table where the plastic coating had worn away to reveal metal; it was scalding at best, and Christopher had accidentally grabbed the Sun-heated seat-belt buckle one too many times to not be cautious of such things.

A flicker of movement caught his eye— too sudden to be one of the ducks, too small to be a passing car.

Christopher paused mid-bite, squinting out across the brown-baked grass and gravel. There, on the opposite side of the pond, stood the girl. She was rising to her feet, having just fallen straight out of the tree besides her. Christopher watched in startled wonder as she jumped up a good distance and yanked down her tattered backpack from the branches.

Normally, he wouldn’t have been bothered by it. Kids climbed trees around here all the time; Lydia, with a ten year-old boy and eight-year old twins, could attest to that fact with great exasperation. But the girl jumped up again, and this time pulled down a thin excuse of a blanket.

Christopher slowly set down his half of the sandwich, worry creeping into his mind. He wasn’t sure where the girl had come from, or where she went when she left his store— but to be sleeping in a _tree—_

Across the little pond, the girl turned around as she adjusted the straps on her backpack, and saw Christopher sitting there. For a moment, her eyes widened in surprise. And then her face smoothed into a perfectly blank mask. She lifted her chin, raised an eyebrow, and marched straight towards him.

_No— not towards me_ , Christopher realized belatedly as she rounded the corner of the pond, a few degrees off course from where he sat. _Towards the road behind the benches_.

Christopher was tempted to let her pass, to not provoke her obvious pride. But she was barely older than one of his other nieces, and she’d been sleeping _in a tree_. So against his better judgement, he lifted a hand in greeting.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here!” He called out, trying his best to seem friendly.

The girl slowed her pace, glancing over at him. Despite her cautious demeanor, Christopher caught a hint of curiosity in her eyes. An idea struck him—

“Hey, while I’ve got you,” he reached into his pocket. The girl tensed, fingers twitching at her side. So Christopher slowed the gesture, taking out his wallet. “I didn’t give you the right change, last time you were at the store.”

Both eyebrows shot up. It was a weak lie, they both knew, but Christopher’s heart was telling him to do something kind for her, whether she accepted it or not.

“Come on.” He nodded at the spot across the bench from him. “Get out of the heat for a while. I promise I’m not a serial killer.”

Christopher cringed internally as soon as he said that. He wanted to be light-hearted, but sometimes his humor didn’t go over well with sensitive people— and the girl was a lot more flighty than others who’d eyed him weird after such a joke.

But to his shock, the girl slowly took one step towards the bench, and another and another. Soon enough, she stood only a few feet away from Christopher. Her shoulders were tense, but not in a wary way— like she was hesitant to sit down.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

Her voice was that of a strained singer: at one point it’d been clear as a silver bell, but now there was a faint rasping note underlying the pitch. The girl didn’t blink or go so much as another sign that speaking bothered her. But Christopher was quiet for a moment, mind catching up with the fact that the girl who’d been silent for a solid two weeks had just spoken up.

It wasn’t until her eyebrows knit together in a frown that Christopher realized he’d been staring. “Oh!” He jumped in. “Right– I mean no, no. You’re not a nuisance at all. Just... caught me unawares, is all."

Evidently, it was acceptable. In a smooth, cohesive motion, the girl took a seat opposite from him. After a brief pause, she set her backpack down right besides her, and pulled out a crinkled water bottle.

”So,” Christopher started, picking his sandwich back up. “Are you—“

”Just passing through,” she interrupted, taking a sip of water. It was painfully obvious that she was saving as much as she could, in spite of the brutal early-autumn heat that blanketed the whole South-west.

Christopher shrugged, her blunt manner having no effect on him. “Headed east?”

Suspicion clouded her gaze, twisting her indifference into frightening caution. She leaned back— for a second, he thought she planned on running— but instead, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The perfect posture struck sideways against the accumulated dirt that pressed into her clothes and under her fingernails.

”Headed somewhere,” she replied evenly.

_Coming from east, then._ Christopher hummed in response, finishing the last of his lunch. “Well,” he started rummaging through his wallet. “I’d say if you were looking for a town that wouldn’t remember you when you left, you’ve found it.”

The girl’s fingers tightened around each other. Above their heads, the branches of the ash tree swayed; Christopher glanced up at the sudden movement, but the girl sat as still as a grave.

Christopher believed in God, angels, and the Devil. He also believed that there existed some creatures on the Earth that were none of those things, and every bit as fearsome. ”Not tryin’ to upset you,” he slowed his words, striving for a sense of calm, “but I know what it’s like to have to think about those things.”

She didn’t speak, but she wasn’t running. Christopher took that as a good sign.

”I... I made some choices when I was younger,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “Led me down some paths and highways that I didn’t like. Traveled around, slept in trees—“ his face split in a dry grin. “— finally came to the conclusion that I needed to settle.”

Her dark eyes studied him closely. “So?”

”So I’m not gonna chase you outta my store.”

”And... to what do I owe this vote of confidence?”

The answer was simple, at least to him. “Faith,” he replied. A startled exhale burst out of the girl’s mouth— not quite a laugh, too surprised to be a sigh. “I’m serious. I have faith that you won’t do anything... untoward.”

Her head tilted to the side. Something silver glittered by her collarbone— a necklace, maybe, catching the sunlight that speckled the table — but the girl shifted in her seat, and the hem of her worn t-shirt covered the flicker of silver before Christopher could get a good look.

Eventually, she spoke in that not-quite-crystal-clear voice. “I don’t know your name, mister...”

”Christopher,” he replied immediately, dipping his head in a nod. “Christopher Farfield.”

”Mister Farfield.” She pronounced his name with the faintest lilt. “Old name. Important family?”

”Nope.” He leaned back, gesturing to the park around them. “Not much importance here in Welton. So, just-passing-through, do you have a preferred moniker?”

Christopher meant for the question to be casual, not put the girl on edge. But she shot back into that indifferent pose— a defensive move, he realized, not a rude one. The girl obviously was not comfortable talking about herself, much less handing out such personal information. _That’s alright_ , Christopher though as he packed away the remnants of his lunch, _there’s no need to press._

“I’d say Rachel.”

The girl looked taken aback by the sudden swing in conversation. “Excuse me?” She asked, unsure.

Christopher let out a deep breath, picking at the edge of the plastic coating on the table. “Except you don't really look like an 'R' name. Maybe a Joan...” He peered at her. “No... Jean?”

She shook her head, but the suspicion was long gone. “ _Definitely_ not.”

Then a name floated up from a long-forgotten memory. As it rolled around in Christopher’s head, gaining momentum, a smile tugged at his lips. “Leah,” he mumbled softly. He glanced at the girl, whose features smoothed at the sound of the name. _This one is young_ , his thoughts whispered. _Younger than she acts._

”Leah.” The name fell quietly from the girl’s lips. Her eyes grew unfocused as she ran it through her mind, testing how it felt in her mouth. Then, to Christopher’s joy, the girl’s frown eased. It wasn’t a smile or even a grin, but she seemed less pained than a moment before, and that’s all Christopher wanted. “Yeah.”

Then she suddenly got to her feet, slinging her backpack over her shoulders. “You don’t owe me any change,” she— Leah— called back as she trod towards the main road, never once looking behind her.

The ash tree above Christopher's head creaked in the breeze once, twice, and grew still.

Over the next two weeks, Leah started popping up more often. Christopher couldn’t tell if she genuinely was spending more time outside of the park or if she’d always been sort-of _there_ and he was just now recognizing her. But either way, Christopher made sure to wave or smile in greeting if they crossed paths. _There are enough cruel things in the world_ , he knew, _the least I can do is be friendly._

Leah still stopped by the store every now and then, but the two met up in the park more often than not. The second time they’d shared the picnic table, Christopher nearly voiced his surprise— and then noticed the police car lurking by the edge of the park and Leah’s tense frown, and quietly acted as if he’d expected her to show up all along.

Christopher knew how it felt to be unsteady, to seize any excuse to avoid authority or the threat of being run out of town. So he offered her the other half of his sandwich, and they sat under the ash tree until the patrol car drove away.

Leah wasn’t a talker, not by any means, but over the weeks she’d spoken enough to Christopher a good reason why she was on her own— and why he shouldn’t pry at her:

First: Leah was accustomed to living in parks and eating less than two meals a day. She never complained about being cold (or hot), tired, or hungry. It wasn’t pride, he could tell— it was just _normal_ for her.

Second: She was, in the past or currently, in trouble. Leah chose her words and steps with the utmost care. Her eyes flickered around every corner; she refused to sit or stand with her back to the door or window. Leah quietly drank in everything that surrounded her, and evaluated every detail for the threat of danger. Leah was not afraid— but she was _very_ good about keeping her guard up.

Third, and most concerning: Christopher could not mention her parents.

He did, exactly once.

“Was the necklace a gift from them?” He asked one day as she lined up the boxes on the counter. Her hand was playing absentmindedly with the collar of her shirt; another hint of silver gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and Christopher, fooling himself into not watching his words, asked her a seemingly innocent question.

”Sorry?” Leah’s hand fell back to her side, eyes snapping into focus from her daydream.

”The—“ Christopher scanned a bag of trail mix with one hand, gestured to his own neck with the other. “The silver. It’s pretty. Was it a gift from your parents?”

The air rushed out of Leah in one fell swoop. Every ounce of color drained from her already too pale face; her veins pulsed a sickly violet through her skin. She stumbled back a step— the most uncoordinated he’d ever seen her act.

Christopher, without thinking, reached forward to place a hand on her shoulder. Faster than he could blink, Leah lurched backwards, nearly pinwheeling into the other register. “Wait— Leah!” Christopher yelped, already darting around the counter—

Leah dropped the handful of bills she’d had at the ready and darted for the door. Before Christopher was even clear of the register, she was gone. Christopher raced out to the parking lot, heart hammering in his chest, only to see the back of a dirty jacket vanish around the corner of the block.

She didn’t show up for three days.

Christopher nearly called the police several times over, but he couldn’t get Leah’s terrified expression out of his head. _She’d run_ , he understood, _no matter who was chasing her. As long as there’s someone at her heels, she’ll take off._

So he waited. He walked by the park, but Leah’s stuff wasn’t up in her tree. She didn’t stop by the store, she wasn't on the few corners that the other vagrants shared (Christopher knew for sure, he checked every one of them). Leah had simply dropped off the face of the Earth— here one moment and gone the next.

On the fourth day, Christopher resigned himself to the probability that Leah wasn’t coming back. That Tuesday morning was slow and unbearably quiet in the store. The cool air wafting down from the vents did nothing to ease Christopher’s mind— in fact (and he couldn’t articulate _why_ this was) it felt… wrong. Sterile.

The glass doors swung open, the bell chimed, and Leah stood there, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above his shoulder.

Christopher didn’t say anything (apologies were a strong suit of his, but he didn’t have the right to reopen that old, festering wound he’d accidentally grazed), and just reached below the counter. He pulled out the bag of food that she’d abandoned, set it down, and asked for ten dollars even for it. Leah knew _exactly_ what he was doing— she was the farthest from stupid than anyone he’d ever met— but she accepted the deal without fuss.

As she reached for the bag, the sleeves of her jacket rode up, revealing a pattern of purple bruises littering her forearms like fallen leaves. Leah didn’t look him in the eye, but there were dark bags under hers, and Christopher’s silence reaffirmed itself.

Leah did not need his worry, but she had it nonetheless. Christopher _understood_ how it felt to be unsteady, to throw yourself into conflict just to have some semblance of control over what hurt you. So the next time he went to the park on his lunch break, he brought a serviceable First-Aid kit and slipped it into her backpack while she was throwing away her trash. When he got home that night, his wallet held a few more crumpled bills, despite it being on his person throughout their whole meeting. Christopher almost laughed.

Five days after Leah’s disappearing act, Christopher found himself sitting in the pews, fingers running over the stamped letters on the cover of the Bible.

Someone further in the back coughed, the sound rebounding from the arches above the pews. A deep breath flooded in and out of Christopher’s lungs. The brass pipes of the organ gleamed dully in the light, reflecting a hazy rainbow of colors that filtered in through the stained glass windows. Despite being cleaned regularly, there existed a constant film of dust that hovered in the air, kept cool by the stone walls even in the brutal autumn heat.

Christopher didn’t know if Leah was religious. He never asked her about it— she hated talking about herself, and faith was an infallibly personal subject. But Christopher dealt with faith more often than most, and so today, he wasn’t here for himself.

Quietly, so as to not disturb the other folks or the hazy air, Christopher began to mumble a prayer to his namesake.

_“Bad luck_ ,” his grandmother prattled when he was younger. _“Naming a child after the patron of travelers— he’ll run away, just you watch. What were you thinking, Jan?”_

Christopher’s mother would shake her head and let the old woman mutter about bad omens. Neither son nor mother payed her much mind; Christopher inherited his mother’s patience, afterall.

“Look over her,” Christopher prayed now, his voice soft but sure. “She’ll leave, and when she does, let her settle— if not in one place, then with herself.”

The brass pipes did not answer him. Neither did the book in his hands.

Christopher bowed his head, and quietly made his way out of the church.

When he pulled into the parking lot in front of his store, there wasn’t a single car in sight. Christopher fully intended to head into the back room and finish the long-overdue inventory list, but just as he pulled out his keys, his eyes snagged on something just around the corner of the store.

There, barely visible, was the edge of Leah’s jacket, draped haphazardly over a small concrete table next to her backpack.

Christopher tucked his keys back into his pocket and ambled around the corner of the store. When he’d bought the place, there’d been a set of picnic tables scattered around the back; over the years, he’d managed to finally drag them out, one by one, save for this stubborn table that’d been bolted into the ground beneath it. It grated on Christopher for a while (some folks sat back there and left broken glass bottles all across the dirt, glittering like mica in river silt), but there wasn’t much else he could do about it, so the table stayed. And, evidently, it’d found a new occupant.

Leah sat backwards on the bench, facing out towards the expanse of Arizona desert unfurling from Christopher’s store all the way to the northern horizon. Her eyes were closed, face turned up toward the sky in a rare moment of peace.

That peace was dashed as soon as Christopher’s feet left the asphalt, gravel grinding against the soles of his shoes. Leah’s head twitched in his direction, creepily dark eyes suddenly open and locked on the canyon ridges far north.

“Stopped by earlier,” she began in her once-clear voice, elbows propped up on the table behind her. “You weren’t here.”

“Church.” Christopher sat down on the other end of the bench. He couldn’t remember exactly when he started giving one-word answers, but Leah had a way of leaving a faint trace on everything around her. “Something you need?”

Leah shook her head. The curtain of black hair hung strangely by her neck— with a jolt, he realized that parts of it had been hacked off just above her shoulders.

Something in Christopher’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach out, but wasn’t sure how badly she’d react. “What happened?”

Leah shrugged. One pale hand drifted upwards, fingertips brushing against the ends of a roughly cut patch. “Some boys thought it’d be funny to mat chewing gum in my hair while I slept. ‘Course, I woke up and chased ‘em off, but…”

“Who do I need to talk to?”

“You’ve done enough. I’ll deal with it.”

“Leah—”

She stopped him cold with a glare. Despite her stick-thin form (she looked constantly on the verge of starvation), Leah possessed a sharpness unrivaled by any. Christopher wasn’t on her bad side— at least, he didn’t think he was— and by every force he worshiped, he prayed he’d never find himself there.

“I’ve been here too long,” she eventually spoke as she turned back to the sky.

It didn’t surprise Christopher, but part of him already missed this odd, quiet girl. “I figured as much.”

A frown flickered over Leah’s face; her eyes narrowed in concentration. “I don’t—” she started, breaking off in frustration. “I— I _can’t_ stay. Part of me wants to, part of me likes this place. But I love the cold, and winter is coming up fast, and…”

It was the most she’d ever spoken about herself. Christopher, in an effort to not make her defensive, schooled his expression into a more neutral one. “Leah…” he uttered her name carefully. She wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Speaking from experience, I wouldn’t fight it.”

A short staccato of a laugh burst out from Leah’s lungs, bitter and harsh. “ _Fight_ it? Fight _what_?”

“Your calling,” Christopher replied calmly. “Some of you likes Arizona, some of you craves the wind.”

Leah went utterly still, fingers deadly motionless. Her necklace glittered under the collar of her shirt— she wasn’t even _breathing_.

“I’m not blind,” he hastily continued, desperate to keep her steady. “You’re always outside when it’s windy, you never wear your jacket—” he gestured to where the clothing in question lay across the table— “and you seem more at peace when there’s a cloud or two in the sky.”

Leah didn’t reply straight away. Christopher thought he’d lost her for sure when— “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It means you’re forcing yourself to pick a side,” he explained slowly. The words came to him easily; they were the same thoughts he wished someone had told him when he was younger, before he found himself trying to figure everything out on his own. “Arizona in autumn is about the furthest thing from cold there is— well, there’s Vegas, but you’re a little on a the young side for that. My point is, Leah, that you can’t rush this. You’ve gotta let things unfold, let them settle.”

Leah scoffed at that. Her fingers resumed their restless twitching, drumming a tattoo on the edge of the table. “You sound like Brokkr.”

_A broker? Who the— never mind_. “What’s the harm in that?” Christopher asked after a beat. “Would it really be that bad if you let things settle?”

Leah, as expected, didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the dusty, sun-baked land, a careful frown drawn delicately across her severe features in its usual fashion.

“I think,” Leah began slowly, a deep breath rushing out of her lungs. The ends of her now-ragged hair fluttered back in the end of a soft breeze. “There are some storms we can avoid, and some we cannot weather, no matter how deep in the ground he dig our heels.”

Another pause, another lungful of parched, metallic-tasting air.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Christopher repeated. He leaned back against the table, the mirror image of Leah.

She hummed. That cool breeze picked up speed, sweeping through the abandoned picnic area, off-setting the heat of the Sun. Leah’s hair twisted up around her neck, and Christopher caught another weak glimpse of silver.

A thin patch of a cloud skittered across the Sun like a kitchen curtain— substantial enough to dim the light, but lacking sufficient weight to provide much relief. Christopher shivered in the sudden drop of temperature. Leah didn’t blink.

“You know,” he started hesitantly. Leah’s fingers curled slightly, but the tension eased from her shoulders. If there was ever a right moment, this was it. So Christopher took a deep breath, prayed she wouldn’t take it the wrong way, and plowed ahead. “I’ve been thinking about hiring another worker. Nothing fancy, just someone to restock and close up each night. Pays well enough.” He very badly wanted to look at Leah, to gauge her reaction— but the momentary shade send goosebumps rippling across his arms, and it unnerved him more than her silence. “You wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.”

The next phrase died on his lips: _I just want you to be steady, to know what it feels like._

Leah was quiet. He finally turned his head—

She’d shifted forward from her reclined position, forearms on her knees. Her eyes flickered across the horizon, scanning the distant canyon ridges. If Christopher didn’t know better, he’d say she was expecting to be followed.

When Leah spoke, she did so with a delicate uncertainty, as if the silence were sacred to her. “I don’t think you want someone like me staying. I’m not…” She trailed off, absentmindedly tracing a pattern into the center of her left palm. “I’m temporary.”

“But you won’t know unless—”

“I try?” Her tone suddenly fell sharp. “Do you really think I’d be here if I hadn’t?”

Christopher flinched back before he could stop himself. Leah settled back, the momentary bitterness fading; and he almost apologized, but Leah’s face was calm and far from guilty—

She’d expected that reaction. And he did not disappoint.

Warmth hit his skin, bright and clear. Christopher glanced up only to watch the meager clouds peel away from the Sun, pulled towards the horizon against the will by the wind.

Leah’s face turned to the sky, eyes fluttering shut. She looked very much like she wished to join the clouds on their long, horizon-bound trek.

“You don’t belong here,” Christopher told her, words weighed down with an odd sort of grief. Here was this specter of a person, this black and grey wisp, and Christopher felt nothing but sad.

There wasn’t so much of a twinge of grief on Leah’s face, the only undisturbed bit of the landscape among the cracked earth and jagged mesa outcroppings. She made no motion to deny his statement; and even if she did, the lie would be painfully obvious.

Arizona was a sharp patch-work of rust and parched soil. It left your throat dry and your lungs full of dust. Clouds never lingered and the wind didn’t bite so much as burn your face, but never as strong as the unrelenting Sun. Grass grew brown and scraggly, and the trembling bushed weren’t quite loud enough to mask the rustling of rattlesnakes underfoot. It was every shade of red and copper, worming its way under your fingernails and into the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes. Arizona was bright and scalding and ever on the verge of exhaustion.

And Leah was grey.

She was sharp, yes, and bright. But not like Arizona. Not like Christopher’s home. Everything sharp about Leah was quick, everything bright was a flash of white teeth or silver jewelry. Shadows and night-time coolness had nothing on the girl. Leah, when Christopher thought about it, was the last tenth of a painting— a pencil sketch that hadn’t been covered up in color quite yet.

So it was unignorably, painfully obvious that Leah did not belong here.

“Thanks,” she said simply. Even her tone— clear, ringing, cold— stuck out like an inkblot on a map. “Not for the job offer—” her head tilted to the side, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “Well, I appreciate the gesture. But I’m talking about the advice. About settling.”

A little bloom of happiness skittered in Christopher’s chest. He may be tied to Arizona, she may be silver in a sea of dirt, but at least he could help. At least he could lead to a steady place.

“So where’ll you go, then?”

She shrugged. “North, most likely.”

“Just that? No city, no state, just—”

“North.”

Christopher nodded to himself. “Be careful up there.” He tapped the bench between them so she’d turn, making sure she payed attention. “Winter’s coming up quick. Traveling on foot won’t be easy once the first snow falls.”

Leah shook her head. Her thumb was still running over the lines in her palm, tracing an imaginary ‘H’. _Maybe that’s her real name_ , Christopher mused. _Something like Helen, or Hannah._

 _“‘_ Preciate the concern,” she replied, shaking Christopher out of his thoughts. “But I don’t get cold.” The silver chain glittered above her collar for a moment before sinking back below sight.

Christopher chuckled, the sound sticking to the back of his throat. “Try Alaska then, why don’t you?”

And then, for the first time since he’d met her, Leah laughed. It wasn’t a deep sound, it didn’t roll from her gut, it didn’t swell from her whole body. But it rang out like a bell, with the faintest rasp underlying the note. That solitary laugh hit the air like a breeze buffeting the low hanging branches of an ash tree.

Christopher felt a wide smile slide across his face. A second, replying chuckle rolled out of his lungs, and for a single, glorious moment, the world was light.

Leah’s laughter floated up above their heads and dissolved in a gust of dry desert air. Her head tipped back, elbows propped back on the table behind her; Christopher’s mind supplied the image of his sister’s cat, lounging in the afternoon Sun.

Then, in a carelessly elegant motion, Leah rose from her seat and ran her hands through her uneven hair. She stretched her arms over her head, spine arcing into the movement. “Well,” she sighed, hands falling to her side. “I think it’s time to go.”

Christopher nodded, and with a polite smile— actually, more of a not-frown— Leah gathered up her jacket and backpack, and began walking around to the front of the store.

“Bring some winter clothes!” Christopher couldn’t help but call after her, anxious to depart any wisdom on the young girl before she left. “And lots of water!”

Leah lifted a hand in acknowledgment, still set on her trajectory. Every step sunk into the ground but her face was turned to the sky, searching for the next tailwind to spin her somewhere new. Her feet made no sound on the gravel; it probably should’ve been unnerving, but Leah was Leah, and Christopher didn’t bother trying to understand why.

He’d turned back to the open desert for only a second before another thought struck him. Sucking in a deep breath, Christopher lifted his head to call out once more—

And Leah was gone. Silent and swift, she’d caught the end of a breeze and vanished from sight.

The dry autumn heat struck Christopher like a sledgehammer. Sunlight blared into ever corner, no clouds left to provide relief or sanctuary. He nearly winced, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes from the Sun. Pulling himself to his feet, he scanned the horizon for any sign of the girl.

But Arizona had finally chased out that last anomaly, and now it was complete in all its Sun-scorched glory. No clouds, no cold, no silver.

When Christopher walked back towards the store, it wasn’t to look for her. Instead, he ambled inside, flipped the sign to the ‘OPEN’ side— and carefully folded the brand-new vest lying on the second register, taking care to tuck the name tag in so that the black letters spelling ‘Leah’ wouldn’t chip.

It was going to be a good day. He could feel it.

♜

Three weeks later, Christopher was back at the cash register. Everything was calm, per usual; the hum of the vents and scratch of his ball-point pen on the puzzle book blurred into a perfect, lazy afternoon. All was in its place. Arizona was quiet today, and so was Christopher’s store—

The door crashed open.

“Jesus!” Christopher jumped to his feet, hand shooting under the counter to where a thankfully (so-far) unused pistol sat.

A tall man, dressed in black jeans and a purple shirt, all but ran towards Christopher. Blue eyes narrowed, the stranger reached into his jacket pocket— Christopher’s fingers tightened around the gun— but the man pulled out a thin wallet instead.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Christopher said in a warning tone. _Two feet from the phone. Twenty from the back door. Police could be here in—_

The stranger yanked out an ID card, shoving it in Christopher’s face. He leaned back reflexively, but as soon as his focus adjusted he could make out the small letters reading… SHIELD? _Oh. He_ **_is_ ** _the police._

“Good. I’m not here to cause any.” The man’s voice was as tense as his posture. “How’s the weather?”

“ _Excuse me_?” Christopher gawked openly at the man. “Look, Mister—” He glanced at the ID card. “Agent Barton. What in the name of all things holy—”

“It’s been weird, right?” Agent Barton interrupted him. He wasn’t _glaring_ , per se, but Christopher stood at least half a foot shorter and forty pounds lighter; if the agent planned on doing anything, Christopher doubted he could stop him.

“Weird how?” Christopher asked slowly, hand still resting on the gun.

Agent Barton exhaled sharply. “Should be ninety degrees easily, right? Boiling Sun, tires melting, wailing and gnashing of teeth and all that?”

“I suppose.” Christopher risked taking his eyes off the agent, glancing out into the parking lot. Besides a strange SUV— the agent’s, clearly— there wasn’t a single other person there. “The police station is a few blocks south, I’m sure they’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

“I know. They did.” Agent Barton’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, doing absolutely nothing to ease Christopher’s nerves. “And they said the only strange thing ‘round town in the last month was a horse having twins and a couple of vagrants passing through.”

_Leah._

Christopher tried to keep his expression blank, but something must’ve given him away, because Agent Barton eyes narrowed like a hawk’s. He leaned forward towards Christopher, bracing his hands against the counter.

“Mr. Farfield, I have had a very trying summer,” Agent Barton said in a low, dark tone. Even Christopher’s name sounded like a threat. “I’ve spent the last _several_ weeks driving through every state between here and New York. I am tired, I am irritated, and my patience is wearing thin. So believe me when I say you _want_ to be completely honest with me.”

Christopher’s eyes flickered toward the phone on the other side of the register.

“You can certainly try.” Agent Barton smiled humorlessly. “Same goes for that pistol. Both will have very counterproductive results.”

Christopher took a deep breath, prayed his nerves wouldn’t make his knees go out from under him, and took his hand off the gun. “What’s the weather got to do with anything?” He asked, throat dry as the desert outside.

“So you agree?” Agent Barton raised an eyebrow, his unwavering gaze pinning Christopher to the spot. “Been a little _colder_ than usual, right? Little more cloud cover, little more wind?”

Christopher didn’t trust his voice at the moment, so he just nodded.

Agent Barton leaned back from the counter. It didn’t ease Christopher’s nerves. The agent reached for his wallet again, this time pulling out a small, folded picture. He held it with far more care before holding it out for Christopher to see.

It was Leah. Skin cleaner, clothes that weren’t falling apart, body less skeletal— but Leah all the same. Her gaze bored through the paper at Christopher; there was an edge here he hadn’t seen on her before. Or maybe it was the absence of the exhaustion that seemed to follow her with every step, threatening to pull her down into an early grave.

Christopher didn’t realize he’d been staring until he glanced up at Agent Barton, only to see the man calmly observing him. Christopher jolted backwards, but it was painfully obvious that he recognized the girl in the picture.

“She wants to be left alone.” Christopher tried to dissuade the agent, but his attempts fell in vain.

The agent’s stare didn’t falter. “Where is she?” He asked quietly, failing to beat back the urgency in his voice.

“I don’t think I should—”

Agent Barton slammed his open hand down the counter with a bang. Christopher flinched heavily, heart jumping up several beats. The agent backpedaled a few steps anxiously, dragging a hand over his face.

“Is she alone?” Agent Barton demanded, posture coiled tighter than a bowstring.

Christopher knew he wasn’t leaving the store until the agent did. “No,” he caved in. It struck him as a betrayal, as treason on every small kindness built between him and Leah.

At Christopher’s reply, Agent Barton pulled himself back to the counter. His hands were twitching at his sides in a frighteningly similar pattern. “But she was here.” It sounded like a plea.

Christopher nodded mutely.

“Was— is she hurt?”

Christopher shook his head. “Not… not that I could tell. Nothing that wouldn’t heal up on its own.”

A great sigh rushed out of Agent Barton’s lungs. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes for a second. The agent’s fearsome shell cracked, revealing frantic concern. _Concern? Is that what it really was?_

Christopher had seen that kind of threatening worry before, on Lydia’s face that Fourth of July when one of her sons ran off to chase the fireworks. Christopher and his sister-in-law tore Bellegar Park apart looking for the boy; they found him unharmed, but Lydia would’ve ripped everything to shreds if he hadn’t been there.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time,” Agent Barton said in a precarious tone. “Where is she?”

Christopher didn’t want to answer him. But a memory came to him unbidden: Leah reappearing after those three days, with bruises on her arms and bags under her eyes. Leah, silent and sharp, so clearly in pain but admitting none of it.

And even then, it was indeed a betrayal when Christoper opened his mouth to speak.

“North.” Christopher’s voice fell softly in the empty store. Agent Barton’s frown eased, the man hanging on every word. “Left three weeks ago. She never said where exactly, just that: north. I… I told to her find someplace she could settle. Somewhere she didn’t feel like she was choosing one part of herself over the other.”

Agent Barton didn’t speak right away. _They obviously knew each other_ , Christopher thought. _Leah has a way of leaving her mark on everyone around her._

 _“_ If you see her,” the agent finally spoke, picking his words carefully. “Call one of us.”

Without looking directly at Christopher, Agent Barton reached forward and tore off the end of an unwanted receipt from the register. He snagged Christopher’s pen and quickly scrawled a number on it, leaving both the receipt and the pen on the counter. Christopher made no move to pick them up.

Agent Barton locked gazes with Christopher for a moment, blue eyes scanning for any sign of deceit. But the agent took a step towards the door, leaving that conversation— interrogation, really— as it was.

Half-way out the door, Agent Barton paused. Christopher tensed instinctively, but the agent just threw out one last question. “What was she going by? I mean, her name.”

Christopher had always known it was nothing more than an alias to the girl; still, it felt wrong to give away so much of what he knew about her when she was so stingy with personal details herself.

“Leah,” Christopher sighed.

Agent Barton’s head tilted slightly to the left as he ran the name over in his mind. Then, disturbingly quiet for a man his size, Agent Barton exited the store. The SUV tore out of the parking lot scarcely a minute later, and then Christopher was left alone once more in the empty store.

_Let her settle_ , he prayed as the plume of dust behind the car slowly drifted back to the ground. _If not in any place, then with herself._

Christopher sat back down, and let the cold air wafting down from the vents chase away any trace of the Arizona desert waiting outside.

Author's Note: AAH I didn't mean for chapter 1 to be this long but there really wasn't any place I could stop it before the end. On that lovely note, welcome to Never Moderation Knew, where the OC deserves a hug and we spend several pages on exposition alone!

(also sorry if the weird update thing freaked any of y'all out, Quotev decided to publish the wrong chapter for me but it's fixed now).

  
  



	2. How to run from the mess you made

I leaped back from the edge of the road as quick as I could. But, as the recent trend of my life dictated, my attempt came a heartbeat too late.

The pickup sped down the highway, kicking up loose earth that flew and plopped back into the ground, leaving little craters in their wake. I’d felt the truck approaching— it made an unignorable slipstream that all but screamed at me, yanking my thoughts back from the gathering clouds. But in that split-second it took to refocus on my surroundings, the truck hurtled past me, throwing up a plume of dust and damper earth as its tires grazed the sides of the unpaved road. I had just enough time to throw my hands up, shielding my face— but the spray of dirt hit me nonetheless. It rained down the back of my jacket, landing in my hair and in the few cases where a pebble struck, a dull ache grew under the sickly pale skin.

Christ. I’d _just_ washed my clothes two days ago.

My steady pace slowed to a halt. Slowly, I raised my hands and started to brush the silt off my clothes. It stuck to the thin layer of sweat coating my palms, smearing over my jacket for three more pats before I realized it was a futile attempt.

Irritation swelled up from my gut, bright and bitter. That emotion came a lot easier to me nowadays— for better or worse, I couldn’t tell, but I had a sinking theory.

The breeze at my back wavered, a loose rudder in a strong current. Without thinking, I leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. The cold air (thank God it was nearly winter, I couldn’t stand the heat) wicked away the now-dirty sweat. It was a balm to my skin, comforting and cool, promising that everything will heal, everything will slow for the winter and thaw come spring, everything will be alright will be _alright will be alright_ —

“Move forward.”

I barely recognized my own voice at this point. Even now, I caught myself glancing around for any other sign of life, searching for who that voice belonged to. Then, carried by my words, the weight of the world slid back over my shoulders, illogically heavier with the loose dirt dusting my clothes and hair.

“Move forward,” I repeated for my own sake. The rasp in my voice stuck out like an ink blot on a map, so unlike the old bell-tone I used to have, that used to be _mine_.

But there’s no use in pretending you’ve still got what you’ve lost, is there?

“Three more miles,” I told myself, glancing over my shoulder at the marker I’d passed a few minutes ago. “Let’s get there before dark.”

My feet scraped over the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt. An echo of the one the truck left behind, and a pitiable reflection of the grey curtain slowly drawing closed over the afternoon sky, blotting out the light and sending intermittent flashes of comforting cold through my bones. The breeze at my back steadied. With every heartbeat, a spot on my cheekbone where a pebble struck throbbed louder and louder. I didn’t need to dig through my backpack for the broken compact mirror to know that an angry purple bruise was rapidly forming on my cheek; in the last handful of weeks, I’d discovered (unfortunately through experience) that my skin bruised a Helheim of a lot easier than it should.

_But I need to move forward_.

The breeze kissed my cheek softly, and I continued down the well-worn road.

♜

By the time Grand Junction came into view, it was nearly dinnertime. The Sun hovered dangerously close to the horizon; far off to either end of the visible world, sunlight clipped the tops of mesas and receding mountains, spurring the first shadows of dusk at the feet of those rocky behemoths. It reminded me of Arizona— just enough dust in the air to taste it, each grey-green bush dressed in copper at sunset.

But here in Colorado, the wind blew far sharper. It slid over my bare skin like icy water, trailing needle-thin lines of silver in its wake, combing through my hair like a thousand invisible fingers—

A bolt of sudden sadness lanced through my chest, scraping against my ribs. My hand drifted upwards, carefully running over the uneven ends of my dark hair. The hollow sensation twisted up into my lungs. It hit me as heavily as it did in Arizona, that morning when I woke up and—

_“Run! Run!” One of the boys cackled, pulling his friend up the small hill by the elbow._

_My hands shot out to either side, swinging through the air as I pinwheeled backwards. Barely awake, I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, everything around me was blinding and deafeningly loud and every nerve in my body was screaming **silver—**_

_Through the swirling mess of green and blue and dusty brown, a bolt of trembling air lanced towards the two retreating boys. Not thinking it through, I lunged forward and snatched it mid-flight. With nowhere else to go, the force of the wind tossed me backwards down the hill, tumbling over scratchy grass and sharp bits of rock that dug into my sides. Hundreds of small aches and stings burst into bloom all over my body— another hazy layer of sensation between me and the world._

_A dull ringing sound filled my head. Eyes squeezed shut, I took in a shuddering breath. My ribs creaked in response, pressing against the dry earth._

_‘At least it was still,’ a thought slurred. ‘At least I’m grounded.’_

_And then that same breath rattled out of my lungs in a wheezing chuckle. Grounded, huh? Since when did that describe anything about me?_

_I honestly didn’t know how long I lay there, curled around myself and just **breathing** through the forming bruises and cuts. Slowly, slowly, the heartbeat pressing through my skin receded into a more tolerable pounding. The boys were probably on the other side of town by now, laughing amongst themselves and picking their next victim._

_Christ, I didn’t want to move— but I needed to, needed to move forward._

_So I pressed my palms against the dirt, ignoring the spikes of pain shooting through scraped-raw skin, and pushed myself to my feet. All the blood in my body rushed to my feet; the tension flooded out of my bones… it felt kind of nice, I could close my eyes for a second, I deserved it…_

_The tell-tale brush of moving air on my skin yanked my head back into focus. I was careening towards the ground— I threw my weight to the other side, lurching off-balance but thankfully not kissing the dirt for a second time in as many minutes._

_“Christ,” I groaned. My head was killing me, holy Hela—_

_My hand froze mid-way to my temple. It’d brushed through my hair and…_

_Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I pinched my thumb and middle finger together. With less resistance than ever before, the air hardened into a quivering blade._

_‘Don’t think about, don’t give yourself a moment to second-guess.’_

_And in one swift motion, the sharpened breeze chopped through the matted clump of gum and duct tape. The wad of dark hair— God, at this point it was so dirty it looked brown— plopped to the ground._

_My eyes stung. I told myself it was just the silver hue fading back into my skull._

_It was silly, I know. It was just hair. But it was my **appearance** , it was one of the few things I had control over. Even when I had nothing to hold onto, even when another nightmare woke me up screaming murder, I would always comb through my hair. Sorting through the tangles was so much easier than sorting through my problems, and the gentle, repetitive motion of braiding over-under-over never failed to quiet my head. But now, now those boys had taken that simple mercy from me, that one element of control…_

_So I did what I do best. I took a breath, and locked the pain back somewhere it would eventually boil over. Afterall, it was one of the few things I could control._

A bone-deep shiver rattled through my spine. My head jerked up, eyes locking onto the city lying before me. It was disturbingly close; I knew I had a habit of going on autopilot, but trudging through a memory _and_ a good mile was a first.

Squinting at the city, I could see the beginnings of golden lights switching on for the night. Even making good time, I was still on the tail-end of twilight. But if I picked up the pace, I could probably find the cheaper part of town, maybe scout out a good place to bunker down in for a stretch.

So I took a moment to catch my breath. Glancing down at my hands, I watched as a delicate ring of silver wound around my thumb. On the other palm, a slow silver eddy crept down towards my fingertips. Usually, the wind-marks would only surface when I called them, or when my legacy burst into use. But now…

Now, this was my new normal.

_Deep breath in, deep breath out_. The marks glittered and faded, and I prayed they wouldn’t reform in public.

The next half-hour passed like the days before: dirt turned to gravel to asphalt, cars sped by more often, light faded and the wind picked up. I’d just passed into the official limits of downtown when the pleasant white noise of engines and breezes shattered with a piercing whistle.

“Hey!” Some man shouted down the road behind me.

_Jeez, it was colder than I expected._ Lost in thought, my eyes bounced over the trees lining the street. They’d strung up little lights in the branches, casting a soft glow over the sidewalk. _Christopher was right. Winter sets in quick northwards. Why didn’t I think of Colorado sooner?_

 _“_ Hey darlin’! Come on, baby, over here!”

_Maybe I should head for Montana after this. It’ll be colder, sure, but there’s less people. I’m smart, I can probably find an odd job or two._

_**Beep–beep!**_

A sudden car horn jarred me out of my head. Confused, I stopped dead in my tracks, glancing behind me.

There was a Jeep on the narrow street, no more than ten feet back from where I stood. It rolled to a halt in the middle of the road a second after I did. Three guys sat inside; both the passenger and the one in back were leaning out of the open window. At first, their grins seemed playful enough to be innocent—

“There you are, baby,” the passenger crooned. In one of his hands was a crumpled beer can. My heart either froze or lurched into action— either way, my limbs suddenly felt very numb.

_Eyes forward. Keep walking_.

The well-memorized list ran through my head as I scraped forward a step, hurriedly twisting my gaze away from them. The sound of tires over asphalt quickly picked up behind me. Something in my chest tightened, burning fever-bright.

 _“_ Ah, no, don’t be like that,” the other one called out. His voice was clearer than his friend’s— it might’ve been reassuring if not for the fact that it meant he was in _full_ control of his faculties at the moment.

_Don’t reply. Don’t stop._

 _“_ Baby, you look tired. We’ll give you a ride, how ‘bout that, huh?”

_Duck into a store if it’s open. (None on this block). Look for kind strangers. (They’re all having dinner or inside their homes). How far is the next corner? (Too far)._

The first man’s voice turned uglier, sending another shiver up my burning skin. “Don’t be like that, give us a smile. Bet you’re pretty under all that dirt—”

Out of the numbness and fear, rage flashed bright and hot, lancing down my spin from the back of my skull in a vicious _**How dare they—**_

A hiss of air, and then with an ear-splitting _CRACK_ , the back tires of the Jeep gave out. The car tilted backwards, the bumper scraping against the asphalt and throwing up sparks.‌‌ The men cried out in varying degrees of confusion and anger.

_Don’t look back._

Without waiting for them to get out of the Jeep (and potentially follow me), I darted towards the next corner up ahead, hanging a quick right. I broke out into a full sprint, boots slapping against the sidewalk louder than I liked but I _had_ to get away, I _had_ to run until their slimy voices didn’t drip over my head, sticking to my skin, staining and corroding—

The Sun finally tipped below the buildings surrounding me. Shade hit me sideways, cold on my skin. Lungs heaving for air, I slowed my frantic pace, leaning into the comforting chill.

A quick look around me soothed my nerves further. I was out of downtown by now; the buildings had turned from storefronts and restaurants to houses. Chain-link fences sprung up against the sidewalk in lieu of the light-strung trees. Overhead, the last traces of sunset, coral pink and copper, faded into a deep iron gray. A handful of stars peeked out from behind the veil of clouds, brighter than the crescent moon rising in the east.

_Find an old house, bar the doors, set up for the night._

A different list, but welcome nonetheless. It was easy to follow, to go through the motions; or maybe I was just good at separating movement from consciousness. Either way, it didn't take me long to trek further into the maze-like neighborhood. All winding streets and trees, tamping down the streetlamps and porch lights.

Eventually, the wooden pickets turned to chain link fences. Against the darkening sky, the edge of a heavily slanted roof loomed a few houses ahead. Bare patches reflected what ambient light remained in the places where part of the roof had been stripped away, whether through time or half-finished construction.

_Finally_ , I sighed, readjusting my grip on the backpack straps. The gesture made my skin prickle unpleasantly-- I must've been clenching the fabric so tight it cut off the blood flow. _I'm ready for this day to be over._

As I neared the old house, each step sent a jolt through my body. Exhaustion tugged at my bones, heavy as the clouds gathering above the city. For some reason, the backpack still needled at my bare skin; I'd say it felt cold, but that _never_ happened. _Just need sleep_ , I told myself, the words slurring together in my head as I turned into the walkway of the house. _A little rest and then I'll be fine._

By the front door, there was a lonely sign propped up. Some real estate agent's face plastered across it with far too-white teeth, swinging in the breeze with a creak each time the hinges moved. I ignored the door and with a careful glance over my shoulder, headed quietly around back. A decent number of the windows on the first floor had already been broken, and fading spray paint told me that I didn't exactly need to worry about paying rent. _No one would find me here, as long as I kept my head down._

"Come on, don't make things difficult," I grumbled under my breath as I reached through a shattered pane of glass, fumbling for the handle. After a few tries (and more than a few scratches from the glass), my fingers grazed metal, and as I twisted my hand the door suddenly gave in with a soft _*click*._

If I were superstitious, I would've called this house "haunted" and then ran back out.

A good layer of dust coated the floor and the desolate bookshelves. Everything in this small living room had been looted, save for the furniture affixed to the walls (and it was almost certain that the same held true for all the other rooms). Between the dusk and lack of any light fixtures, the room was nearly pitch black. From the kitchen to my left came the undeniable scent of something rotting, and mixed with the smell of damp wood from a recent rain, it was no surprise when my eyes began to water. But for some reason, I didn't feel repulsed by the oppressive darkness or the stench-- I'd never been here before, I couldn't begin to understand–

_It feels like the alley_.

The realization hit me like the truck that nearly drowned me in dirt this afternoon. _That's_ why this didn't bother me... because I'd lived in a place nearly identical to this for a year. Back in New York, back before–

A sudden bolt of heat lanced through my skull. It stuck right where my spine met the back of my head, throbbing in that little hollow. I reached up to touch it, and since when was the floor so close–

Eyes flying open, I threw my weight to the opposite side, stopping myself right before I crashed into the musty wooden boards. A sharp inhale brought clouds of dust racing into my lungs and a violent hacking cough broke off any thought of regaining my balance.

_Christ_ , _everything is too dirty and hot and cold all at once– **bed**. I need to **sleep** , that's what's wrong with me. _

It didn't happen right away. The coughing fit took another minute to pass, and I waited a while to get my breathing under control. Eventually, _slowly_ , I trudged towards the staircase. Thank God this place was abandoned, because in the dark my feet caught on the bare floor just fine without other junk to trip me up.

At some point on the stairs, I just stopped thinking.

_Breathe in, breathe out._ Creak, creak, go the floorboards. _Breathe in, breathe out_. Ignore the ache, ignore the discomfort. _Breathe in, breathe out._ First door at the top of the landing, bedroom. _Breathe in, breathe out._ Stumble in, hope the tunnel vision isn't blocking anything important. _Breathe in, breathe out._

The pain in my head hadn't eased. Even lying still on my back– _when'd that happen–_ didn't reap much of a change. The ceiling above me was littered with water stains, and I'm pretty sure sleeping in here wasn't the best of ideas but the alternative was getting up, and I _really_ didn't want to fall back down. So I fumbled with my backpack, dragged out a ratty sweater, and tried to fashion that into a cushion. It didn't exactly turn the floor into a tempurpedic mattress, but it was better than nothing.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

The house shuddered, settled, and grew silent once more. Every bone in my body felt heavy and numb-- the last bits of energy I'd clung to turned to sand, trickling out of my skin and into the dusty floor. If I focused past the not-quite-chill in the air, I could hear little shifts and creaks in the wood.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Eyes closed, heart steady, house quiet. Outside these walls stood a new city, full of strangers and the threat of being known, being rediscovered ( _I’d left people behind, I couldn’t risk **thinking** about them– it felt like they’d hear my thoughts from miles away, with how loud my head was right now)_. Then a distant peal of thunder broke overhead, shooting a tremor through the air that sent my nerves buzzing; there was a storm rolling in, close on my tail.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

The storm could wait until morning.

Author’s Note: In all honesty guys, I had this chapter almost ready to go for a few weeks now. _However_ , it’s been brought to my attention that another person here has copied my work. Guys, I’m not gonna make this another whole chapter like I did last time (that message itself holds the same sentiments I’m feeling this time around, so if you’re new here just check the last book for the chapter that says “ATTENTION” or something like that).

I’m not gonna take this story down. I still plan on writing until Gale’s entire arc is through. But for the everlasting love of God, **DON’T STEAL OTHER PEOPLE’S WORK.** That’s not just for books, it’s for _anything that a creator decides to share or even make._ Not only does it betray the creator’s trust in their audience, it feels _terrible_ to realize that the thing you’ve spent literal years on has become someone else’s cheap way to recognition.

I’m gonna leave it at that. I hope y'all are staying safe and remembering to take care of yourselves and the people around you-- even if you're not in a risk group for the Corona virus, not everyone is. We gotta watch out for each other in this world.


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